Infraction
by Heartbeat101
Summary: Alex gets into a bit of trouble in California. Neal's name comes up, and he's called out for questioning. Peter comes along to keep an eye on him. Unfortunately for them, when Patrick Jane is involved, all sorts of rules get tossed out the window.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Infraction

**Summary:** Alex gets into a bit of trouble in California. Neal's name comes up, and he's called out for questioning. Naturally, Peter comes along to keep an eye on him. Unfortunately for them, when Patrick Jane is involved, all sorts of rules get tossed out the window.

_Monday, June 12, 2010_

_12:15 pm_

The temperature outside was stifling. Two people, a burly man and a red haired woman, sweated inside a dark blue minivan, sporting rumpled button-down shirts, slacks, and sunglasses.

"I hate stakeouts," the man grumbled as he twisted the air-conditioning knob as high as it would go. The old machine made a choking sound as it vibrated faster, and then with one final wheeze, gave out.

The woman glared at him, and he winced, wondering how she could muster up such a cold stare in such a heated environment. Then she sighed and looked away, cranking down her window in an attempt to let air move through the car. Chagrined, the man followed her example.

It didn't help much.

The man looked out his window at the store they were supposed to be watching. It was an antiques shop, probably catered to the upper middle-class. So far two people had gone in—a harried looking blonde woman carrying a squalling baby, and a middle-aged balding man with round glasses. Neither had come out yet.

His eyes wandered up and down along the street. There was a 7-11 on the corner, next to a used bookstore. Then the antiques shop, which sat next to a public library. Not the kind of places he would go for fun.

He counted cars next—there were only four, aside from the van: a black Jetta, a gold Sienna with a dent in the passenger-side door, a silver Camry, and a dark blue, hybrid Prius.

Then he counted windows, which took a bit longer. Seventeen on his side of the block; he didn't want to stare over at the passenger's side of the block, for fear of irritating his partner.

Another fifty minutes passed, and the man wondered if it was possible to die of boredom. Finally he couldn't take it anymore. "Do you want something to drink? I'm going to grab a soda from that shop across the street."

For a minute, it looked like she was going to ignore him. Then, apparently, she thought better of it and answered, "Bottled water. And a cup of ice."

He swung down out of the fan and slammed the door behind him in relief. His white shirt clung to his sweaty back, but there was a bit of a breeze outside that made it more bearable. He stepped into the 7-11 and exhaled in relief: air conditioning. He spent as long as he could hovering over drinks, and then flipped through a couple magazines as well. It wasn't like he was in a rush to get back to sitting in an overheated van with an uncomfortably icy partner, anyway.

Then he heard a car door slam loudly, and a familiar yell. Someone screamed, and a gun went off. He dropped the water bottle, ignoring the clerk's irritated exclamation, and ran outside just in time to see his partner tackle another woman to the ground.

He jogged over, watching as his partner slapped handcuffs around the woman's wrists and gave her the standard Fifth Amendment spiel.

"Everything all right?" He asked, when he reached them.

The woman on the pavement gave him a look. His partner stood, pulling her up, and said. "Yeah. Just fine. Thanks for the backup."

Then, before he could reply, she shoved the handcuffed lady at him and grabbed her cell phone. "This is Agent Van Pelt. Suspect has been apprehended, we're bringing her in now." Pause. "Sure thing, boss."

The phone snapped shut with a click, and Grace Van Pelt glanced over at him. "Come on. She's wanted back at headquarters."

She stalked back to the van without another word, and Rigsby frowned. The woman in his arms jerked away and laughed. "Romance gone sour?"

Rigsby scowled. "Shut up."

* * *

Half an hour later, in CBI headquarters, Agent Cho dropped a file the size of a dictionary onto a table in the questioning room. He pulled out his chair and sat down, then said,

"All of this is yours."

The pretty brown-haired woman in the chair across from him smiled. "I've led an exciting life."

Cho reached over and opened the file. "If by exciting you mean implicated in over a dozen robberies and forgeries, and suspected of possession and sale of illegally acquired goods."

Her smile widened just a bit, before vanishing altogether. "You can't keep me here. You haven't got anything to hold me on."

"We can for up to twenty-four hours—" Cho began, but another voice cut him off.

"How about possession of a stolen painting?" A smiling blond man stepped into the room and closed the door behind him with a soft click. He walked over with quick steps and extended a hand over the table, "Hi, I'm Patrick Jane. You must be Miss Hunter."

Miss Hunter took his hand and shook. "Please, call me Alex. What painting?"

"The Kandinsky you were carrying. It's real, by the way," he added, turning to Cho. "I checked. We've already called the owner—he's flying out tomorrow to pick it up."

Cho looked back at Alex. "If you have any kind of explanation, now is your chance."

Alex shrugged, looking innocently surprised. "A friend of mine asked me to deliver the painting to his brother in California. I owed him a favor, so I did it. I thought it was a fake."

Cho raised an eyebrow. "That's it?"

"That is a bit weak," Jane agreed, sliding his hands into his pockets and rocking back onto his heels. "I'm sure you could do better, you seem like a smart girl."

"I didn't steal it, if that's what you want to hear," Alex told them. She crossed her arms and leaned forward. "When did it go missing?"

"That's confidential information, ma'am," Cho said firmly.

Alex rolled her eyes and laughed, "Oh, come on. If I stole it then I already know, so it wouldn't matter if you told me anyway. If I didn't steal it, I'm innocent and it still doesn't make a difference."

"She has a point," Jane pointed out. Cho sighed.

"Theft was discovered Thursday morning, along with the dead bodies of two of the house guards."

"I have an alibi for Thursday. And Wednesday night."

Cho leveled a hard stare at her. "Let's hear it then, and we'll see if it checks out."

Alex heaved a put-upon sigh. Jane smiled, his blue eyes laughing, as she said, "I was in New York until this morning. You can check my flight times with United."

Cho made a note on the file. "Is there anyone who can vouch for your physical presence in New York?"

Alex hesitated for a split second, and Jane's eyes noted it with interest. "Friends. Neal Caffrey, and FBI Agent Peter Burke. His landlady June."

"Whose landlady?"

"Neal's."

Jane jumped in. "You say that name so reluctantly. Almost as if you were trying to keep from mentioning it at all. Who is Neal Caffrey?"

Alex closed her mouth.

Jane continued, blithely, "I'd guess a business partner, but you mentioned his name alongside the name of an FBI agent, so probably not. A former lover, maybe?"

A flicker of something crossed Alex's face and was gone in an instant, but Jane grinned triumphantly, "Ah. Unrequited love. The best kind."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Alex said calmly. Blue eyes met brown and locked. Cho glanced from one to the other and stood up, scraping the chair across the floor loudly.

"I'll just call in the alibi before we let you go, Miss Hunter." He pulled a set of handcuffs from his back pocket and locked one around her wrist, the other around the leg of the table.

She gave him a disparaging look, and he lifted a shoulder in response. "Sorry, standard procedure."

Jane closed the door loudly behind them.

"I think she's lying."

Cho raised an eyebrow and kept walking. "We'll run a background check on the people she mentioned as references."

Jane veered off and settled himself back on his brown leather sofa, crossing his arms over his chest and staring thoughtfully at the water stain on the ceiling. "Maybe not about everything, but about something…"

* * *

Across the country, in New York City, a phone rang.

Two rings, and then Agent Peter Burke of the FBI grabbed it. "FBI, this is Agent Burke."

A woman's voice came over the line. "Agent Burke this is Agent Lisbon of the CBI. We just have a couple of questions for you, if you don't mind."

Peter raised an eyebrow. The dark-haired man sitting on the other side of his desk glanced up with interest.

"The CBI? California Bureau of Investigation? Are you sure—"

The other man shot him a questioning look. Peter shrugged in response.

"Yes sir," the woman reassured him smoothly, "This will only take a minute."

Peter frowned. "Fine. Ask."

"Where were you Wednesday night?"

Wednesday? That was June's birthday. "At a friend's house for a birthday."

"Could you give us the name of your friend, please?"

"Neal Caffrey."

The dark haired man sat up straight, blue eyes focusing on Peter's face.

"Thank you sir. Was a Miss Alexandra Hunter present as well?"

Peter put a hand over the telephone's speaker, and asked, "Neal, is Alex's last name Hunter?"

Surprise and resignation crossed Neal's face in quick succession. "Yes."

Peter uncovered the phone. "Yes."

"All night?"

"Yes."

"Thank you very much for your time sir, that's all we needed."

Neal seemed to guess that the conversation was ending, because he grabbed Peter's notepad and scribbled, 'ask why she needed to know about alex.'

"Agent Lisbon, may I inquire as to the reason you're calling about Alex?"

"Just a little misunderstanding sir, sorry to bother you. I realize that's not much of an answer, but the case is still open and, therefore, confidential. Have a good day."

She hung up with a click, and the dial tone sounded loudly in the quiet FBI office. Neal leaned forward.

"She wouldn't tell you, huh?"

Peter shrugged. "Nope. 'Confidential' business." He leveled a hard stare at Neal and asked, "Do you know if Alex was involved in something shady in California this past week?"

Neal raised and lowered one shoulder, blue eyes deceptively innocent. "I don't know a thing. But I don't think Alex would be that stupid."

Peter gave him a flat look, and Neal smiled. The smile lasted until he was out of the office, and outside on the street. Then it fell into a tight, serious expression as he pulled a phone out of his pocket. He punched the ten digit number in from memory, and barely waited for the answering, 'hello?'

"What the hell have you done?"

* * *

Theresa Lisbon set the phone back into its cradle and leaned back in her chair, sighing. "There goes our suspect," she murmured to the empty room.

Shaking off the burst of disappointment, she stood up and strode out of the office, nearly smacking headlong into Van Pelt.

"Lisbon, sorry!" Grace looked a little wild, "We just got a call from security downstairs. The painting's been stolen, and two guards are dead."

Lisbon's eyes widened. "Lock down the building; nobody leaves!" She jogged into the main office, and called out, "Cho, check the suspect!"

"On it." Cho disappeared into the interrogation room, and she heard a loud curse. Her heart sank. Cho emerged with a deep frown. "Suspect's gone. She must have picked the lock on the handcuffs."

"And walked right out of the building? Rigsby, go get the security footage. Cho, get a team to search the building—she might still be hiding somewhere. And someone call local PD, let them know to look out for this girl."

"Yes boss."

"I'm going to call the New York FBI."

Because if they'd just let a killer walk out of their offices, in broad daylight…well. There would be hell to pay.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

A/N: White Collar has been good so far, but I'm rather disappointed by the lack of Alex. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm rather fond of her :)

* * *

They had indeed, as it turned out, allowed a potentially homicidal art thief escape from their "secure" facilities. Agent Hightower was most displeased; she took the news about as well as could be expected. Which was to say, she responded by threatening Lisbon with suspension and Jane with a new boss.

"It's not that I have grown fond of the team these past months," Jane assured Lisbon as they practically fled Hightower's office, "It's just that I would hate to have to break in a whole new group of state agents."

"Yeah, whatever," Lisbon replied, but there was a small smile on her face as she went to round up the rest of the team.

They congregated, as they often did, around Van Pelt's computer; she was the handiest with technology—a result of being the most junior agent, and therefore one most often relegated to desk duty.

"Pull up the file on Hunter," Lisbon said, once they had settled in, "so we can see what we're working with."

"Yeah, of course," Van Pelt murmured. Her fingers danced over the keyboard. Rigsby eyed her hands appreciatively. Jane raised a meaningful eyebrow at Cho, who shrugged noncommittally.

"Alexandra Hunter. High-end fence, specializes in rare and valuable artifacts of Slavic origin. Eastern European, to be more general," Van Pelt read. "She was arrested once—"

"Excuse me, Van Pelt," Jane interrupted, "can you tell who was the last person to pull up this file?"

"Yeah." She looked a bit surprised by the question. "Um, Agent Jones of the FBI. New York branch. Supervisor, Agent Burke."

Lisbon's head snapped up. "Burke, did you say? Peter Burke?"

Van Pelt did some more typing. "Yep. Peter. How did you know?"

Lisbon was already up and moving toward Cho's desk. "Because I just got off the phone with him regarding Hunter's alibi."

"You think he was covering for her?" Cho speculated.

Jane frowned a little, brow furrowing in concentration. "Lisbon, that painting was an authentic Kandinsky."

"So?" Lisbon looked at him, "It's expensive?"

"Of course, but that isn't the point I was making. Kandinsky is a Russian artist. Russia is a part of Eastern Europe. Seems right up our suspect's alley, doesn't it?" Jane's brow smoothed out. "How difficult would it be for you to get that FBI agent down here?"

Lisbon considered. "Not too tough. This is a multi-million dollar painting related to a quadruple homicide; I'm sure the FBI will be cooperative enough."

"Excellent." Jane stood and moved toward the door, but paused halfway and turned back. "Oh, and make sure that you request that Agent Burke bring along the man Neal Caffrey. He's essential to the case as well."

* * *

"It was a decent plan, but poorly executed. The guy had some brains but no skill."

Peter glanced over at his companion, amused. "Not like you, eh?"

Neal shot him a blinding smile. "Apples and oranges, my friend."

"Yeah. Fruit."

Neal looked rather offended; Peter pushed past him to hide his smile, and was immediately hailed by Hughes. The man looked grumpy and a bit nervous—dangerous combination, Peter thought privately. He gave Neal a little push towards Jones' desk. "Go do a crossword or something until I've finished my report."

Neal gave him an odd look, but went, surprisingly, without resistance. Hughes was actually tapping his foot when Peter reached him. He didn't mince words.

"Burke, I've had a call from the California Bureau of Investigation. You're requested in the Sunshine State."

Peter felt his stomach start to sink, and then, sure enough,

"You, and your charge. Neal Caffrey. They specifically requested that you bring him along. Now, do you have any idea what this is about?"

"No sir."

Hughes sighed as if he expected as much. "Well, I've booked your plane tickets. In the interests of interdepartmental cooperation, you are to aid them in any way you can with their investigation," Peter opened his mouth, but Hughes raised a hand to forestall any questions. "You'll receive all the necessary information on the plane."

"When are we expected?"

"Yesterday would have been best. Since that's not really within our capabilities, they'll have to settle for ten o'clock tonight."

Peter blinked and consulted his watch. "That's eight hours from now."

Hughes coughed; it looked suspiciously like he was covering a smirk. "Your plane leaves in half an hour. You'd better get going."

* * *

The flight was, for the most part, uneventful. Neal was surprisingly obedient—it was setting off all sorts of warnings in Peter's head. They were, as promised, given files to review on the plane.

"Kandinsky," Neal murmured. "Impressive."

Peter looked up from the middle of his file to find that Neal had, as was his annoying habit, finished reading first. "Is there something you should be telling me about this? Maybe something about Alex. Odd coincidence, that we get a call to confirm her whereabouts, and then suddenly we're summoned to California by someone with enough juice to get even Hughes antsy."

Neal was wearing his poker face; Peter thought might have as much luck drawing the truth out of a brick wall—more, even, because for all their immobility, brick walls never tried to misdirect you by changing the topic.

"The thing about Kandinsky, Peter, is that he was never a halfway kind of guy. He didn't agree with some of his colleagues in Moscow, so he moved to Germany. Didn't bother trying to compromise, or reevaluate his own viewpoints. People tend to be the same way about his art. Either they love it, or they can't see the appeal at all."

"How about you?" Peter asked, because now he was sort of curious.

Neal flashed his trademark grin. "I'm a fan."

Peter closed the file without bothering to mark his place, and leaned back. "So what does that have to do with this case?"

"Just interesting." Neal shrugged, and smiled oddly. "It's important to know your mark."

"Why does that sound like a quote?" Peter asked, wryly. Neal threw back his head and laughed, attracting glances that revealed varying amounts of interest from those seated near them.

Neal's laughter faded, and he said, "A lot of the time, with big, valuable paintings that are mysteriously "stolen," it turns out that the whole thing was an insurance scam. The owner was hard up, and figured the insurance for his painting would bring in more than the actual piece could get on the market. But here, that's unlikely. The owner bought the piece himself three years ago; he would be taking a loss with the insurance company. Besides, no one pays twenty million dollars for a painting they don't want to look at."

Peter smirked. "Especially not in this economy."

Neal ignored this, and continued, "This means we have an actual art thief on our hands."

"I have two, actually," Peter interjected, chuckling. Neal didn't appear quite as amused, which wasn't surprising.

There was a ding, and Peter glanced up to see that the seatbelt sign was glowing faintly. It was followed by an announcement, in the pilot's slow, southern drawl, that they would begin their descent, and the estimated time of arrival was ten fifteen, western time.

The estimate was slightly off—due, no doubt, to the fact that Neal and Peter had been seated in the second to last row of the plane. It wasn't a small plane, either, and so by the time their feet hit the linoleum floor of the actual airport, it was closer to eleven.

Peter had only once before traveled through the Sacramento International Airport, but Neal, apparently, was a more frequent visitor. Either that or, and this Peter was reluctant to consider, Neal had a much better head for direction.

"There they are."

Peter followed Neal's line of gaze to two figures standing by the escalator labeled 'ARRIVALS.' One was blond, of medium height, wearing a wide, white smile. The other was a rather harried looking red-headed woman, who held a hastily and sloppy sign reading 'Burke & Caffrey.'

"They put my name first," Peter noted as they changed directions to head toward their guides.

"Alphabetically correct," Neal responded. "You can't expect them to know any better yet—they haven't met us."

Peter was saved from having to give a witty comeback by the redhaired woman.

"Agent Burke and Neal Caffrey? I'm Agent Van Pelt." She even _sounded_ wrung out. Her companion, on the other hand, smiled and bounced on the balls of his feet.

"Agent Burke," he nodded to Peter, "and Mr. Caffrey. My name is Patrick Jane, I'm a consultant for the CBI." He stuck out his hand cheerfully. Neal grasped it and shook firmly.

"Please, call me Neal."

Peter raised an eyebrow, slightly miffed at being overlooked. "How did you know I wasn't Caffrey?"

The blond man laughed. "You walk like an officer of the law. And you," he said to Neal, "don't look nearly serious enough to be a federal agent."

Neal shrugged at Peter, and said, "Fair enough."

Van Pelt led the way out of the airport, Jane at her heels and Neal and Peter following a few steps behind.

"So," Peter murmured, "I see the CBI has their very own version of you."

"Yeah, but not quite so good looking."

"I heard that!" Jane said, without turning his head.

Peter chuckled. "An _almost identical_ version of you!"

* * *

Grace was hungry, tired, and stressed out. It wasn't an unfamiliar state of affairs, but it was a combination that made her particularly irritable. Unfortunately, there was no one conveniently available for her to vent her frustration on. Jane just laughed and turned her insults into compliments. And she certainly couldn't start off by insulting the third parties Lisbon brought in to help out.

It almost made her miss Rigsby, and the amusing, wounded, 'what did I do?' expression that crossed his face whenever she was in a mood.

She walked three feet past him before she noticed Jane had stopped.

"What now?" she muttered, turning and stalking back to where he was standing.

A dark haired woman in sunglasses and wicked looking stilettos had walked straight into Neal Caffrey, and gone down hard, the contents of her purse scattering across the floor. Neal and Agent Burke were on their knees, hastily picking up lipstick, compacts, little vials of perfume, and a sleek silver cell phone.

Neal stood and offered the woman a hand up. She said something—presumably 'thank you,' or 'I'm sorry'—in another language. French, maybe? Italian? Grace wasn't sure. Languages weren't her forte. She'd never seen herself going farther away from California than Las Vegas.

Neal answered in the same language, and made a little bow. Grace rolled her eyes at the dramatic, but the woman simply nodded and continued on her way. Neal caught Grace looking, and shrugged, as if to say, People, what can you do about them?

She had the sudden thought that women bumped into Neal Caffrey on a regular basis.

Jane elbowed Grace in the side, and leaned in to whisper,

"Can you create a distraction? Neal slipped something into his pocket—I want to see what it was."

Grace blinked at him, surprised. "What?"

But Jane just smiled and patted her arm before moving away to continue toward the doors. Grace heaved a silent sigh and began to walk quickly. Neal and Burke followed at her heels. She ducked sideways around an elderly couple, and walked straight through the metal detector. It went off loudly a moment later, just as Neal and Burke were stepping up to it.

A security guard approached them, scowling. Grace put on her best smile and flashed her badge. "Sorry, sir. I didn't mean to set off the alarm." She pulled aside her sweater to show the man her gun.

He nodded and glanced at Burke and Caffrey. Burke sighed and pulled out his badge as well. Neal shrugged. "Sorry, I don't have one."

The guard nodded briskly. "Right then. We'll have to pat you down, I'm afraid. Standard procedure."

By then Jane had joined them. He walked up to Neal and the guard, past Grace (he shot her a wink) and asked, "What's going on here?"

The guard gave Neal's tracking anklet one last suspicious look, and straightened up. "They set off the metal detectors. But things seem to be in order. You're free to go."

Grace turned again and led them, this time without interruption, out into the parking lot.

* * *

A/N: Hm. They're at it already. Neal and Patrick were made to be friends.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

A/N: Dear Jeff Eastin, please bring Alex back because Sarah Ellis is a poor substitute. Thanks so much. From, A Fan.

More seriously, thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed. Especially those who left very _glowing _reviews (you know who you are!). This chapter is for you.

* * *

Jane stared fixedly at the table in front of him. On it lay a single, yellow, perfectly folded origami flower. Cho and Lisbon sat across from him, failing to see exactly _what_ was so captivating about that piece of paper. Lisbon alternated between watching the flower, and watching Jane's expression.

Neither proved particularly informative. The flower refused to spontaneously combust, or rattle off long sequences of complicated code words. Jane refused to blink, speak, or do anything more involved than _breathing_. Or staring.

Finally, she gave up. "Jane, what are you thinking."

Jane glanced up, surprised, as if he had forgotten they were there. "Neal Caffrey swiped this from the woman at the airport. I think it's meant to be a tulip, but it's always hard to tell with origami."

Lisbon glanced at Cho. "What woman?"

Cho opened his mouth, frowning. Jane answered for him, "Oh, Cho wasn't there. He wouldn't know her. But I have a strong hunch."

Cho's mouth snapped shut.

Lisbon frowned, the gears in her head slipping slowly out of 'frustrated damn Patrick Jane' mode into 'murder case' mode. "Who do you think she was?"

Jane smiled brilliantly and stood, grabbing the flower off of the table and putting it carefully into his pocket. "Not yet. I'll let you know when I have something more substantial."

Lisbon stood, glaring. "Jane—"

"Lisbon," he cut her off, in the obnoxious, _patient_ tone of voice he'd cultivated over his months with the CBI, "Just wait. We don't need to be running around on half-thoughts and fledgling suspicions. Just let me verify this information."

And with that, he was out the door. Lisbon turned to stare with disbelief at Cho.

"Verify? Since when does Patrick Jane need to 'verify' anything? We _always_ operate based on his half-formed suspicions."

* * *

"Yes, honey, just for a few days."

Peter paused, then said, "No, don't worry about it. It's not me, it's Neal."

"Yes, honey. Okay. I love you too. Bye."

Peter snapped the phone closed and looked around, in an almost automatic way, for his charge. Neal was examining the bedsheets.

"They'll do," he announced, looking up at Peter and grinning. "The CBI treats their guests a little better than the FBI, huh? They even got us each our own room."

"You weren't a guest," Peter reminded, "you were a criminal on a very special kind of parole. _Not_ the kind that warranted expensive hotel rooms."

Neal affected a wounded expression. Peter raised an eyebrow. Neal cracked first. He usually did; he knew how to pick his battles.

"Well," Neal said, smiling again, "the room's great. I'm going to go grab a coffee, you want something?"

"Sure. Just get me a regular coffee, no sugar—the big kind."

"Venti," Neal said, with a hint of exasperation.

"That one."

"Fine." Neal grabbed his jacket. "I'll be back in a bit."

The door closed. Peter looked hard at the hat that lay lonely on Neal's bed. He waited another minute. Then he got up, grabbed his own jacket, and slipped out the door.

He spotted Neal at the end of the block, turning right. He hurried a little, to catch up. The sidewalks were crowded enough that he wasn't particularly worried about being seen—not yet, anyway. If Neal continued into any kind of secluded location Peter knew he couldn't follow.

But Neal didn't enter any homes, or any shops. He walked straight to the public park on the west side of their hotel.

It was a nice day—the park was crowded. Mothers pushed double strollers, fathers sported backpacks with tiny heads peeking out, and toddlers ran splashing through the fountains. On the left side of the park was an enormous jungle gym, brimming with children of all shapes and sizes. On the right side was an elaborate floral arrangement; red rose bushes, blooming lilacs the size of small trees, and several rows of yellow tulips.

Neal stood in front of the flowers, with his back to Peter. Then he bent, and picked something out of one of the flowers. Peter backtracked hastily, and walked quickly toward the hotel entrance, praying that Neal hadn't spotted his suspicious retreat.

Of course, with Neal, things never went as smoothly as he would like.

"Peter," said a voice at his elbow, "why were you following me?"

Peter stopped, resigned, and said, "Because obviously you need constant supervision. I can't even trust you to get coffee by yourself anymore."

Neal laughed. "That's not it. _You_ are just too curious."

"And with good reason," Peter muttered. "What were you getting?"

Neal's face closed off, almost unnoticeably, but Peter had worked with him long enough to have mastered these simpler nuances of expression.

"A friend left me something in the park," Neal said carefully.

Peter mulled this over for a few minutes.

"You have the strangest friends," he said finally, and didn't miss Neal's slight exhale of relief.

* * *

Patrick Jane was waiting for them in Neal's room when they got back to the hotel. He looked up from his seat on the windowsill and greeted them cheerfully, as if he hadn't just broken into their rooms, and had every right to be there.

He pointed to Neal's fedora. "Nice hat."

Neal smiled at him; a genuine smile, not the smooth cover-up smile that Peter saw a hundred times a day at the Bureau.

"Thanks."

Jane turned to Peter and said, "I was hoping to speak with Mr. Caffrey alone, actually."

Peter stared at him, surprised. "I don't think—" he began, but Neal cut him off.

"It's okay, Peter. I'll be fine. You can go get your coffee."

Peter frowned at the reminder, hesitant. But, he reasoned, what was the worst thing that could happen? Neal would embarrass the Bureau? Leak…what? He wasn't privy to confidential information. So, "Okay. I'll be back in ten minutes."

When the door closed behind Peter Burke, Jane turned to Neal and held up a paper flower.

"Very nice," Neal said, "Did you make it yourself?"

"No," Jane said, "actually, it was Alexandra Hunter who made it."

Neal's smile froze. "Fingerprints?"

"We checked. Except for mine and yours, it was clean—she must have been careful. But thank you for confirming."

Neal shrugged, but his gaze was sharper as he watched Jane put the flower down on top of the television. "You knew. Or, at least, you thought you did. Which is usually just as good."

"So," Jane said, after a pause, "I can't figure it out. You were in New York at the time of the burglary; we've been able to get multiple eyewitness confirmations. But, somehow, the painting gets stolen, and all the trails seem to, at some point, come back to you."

"That's quite the conundrum," Neal agreed, pleasantly.

Jane stood, abruptly. "Don't worry. I'll figure it out eventually."

"I'll do everything I can to help you," Neal said politely. He got up and opened the door. Patrick Jane took one last look around the room, and left. He almost ran into Peter Burke on the way out; he didn't stop.

Peter stared at Jane's retreating figure, then turned to Neal.

"What's up with him?"

Neal shrugged. "He's too used to being Sherlock Holmes. And now, if you don't mind, I'm going to turn in. I'm feeling a bit jet lagged."

* * *

_Dearest Nicholas,_

_I'm afraid the weather has been rather unpleasant lately. Even Dorian Gray is looking a bit worn. But then, I suppose we're all tired. Here, it takes all the running one can do merely to stay in the same place. At least I still have my good health. As Matt always said, three good meals a day will save one at least half a dozen trips to the doctor. And I haven't been to the Doctor in months, so I suppose it is working—though perhaps the physician's office is rather worried about my lack of appearance. A nurse attempted to contact me the other day, or so I was told; I was out of the house, you see, and they were forced to leave a message._

_In any event, I am glad to be once more in touch, and will remain so._

_Yours truly,_

_Catherine Linton_

Neal stared at the letter, and his lips curled slowly into a smile. Alex had always been the best of them at writing codes. This one was, for her, fairly straightforward.

_Nicholas_—she'd be wanting his Nick Halden persona at some point; or, at least, something like it.

_The weather has been unpleasant_. She was, in case he'd missed the memo, in hot water.

_Dorian's looking a bit worn._ Even her oldest, most unscrupulous contacts were shying away from giving her some help with this problem. Which was troublesome—Alex was a very connected, useful person to know. Being owed a favor by someone like her was not something to take lightly. Which begged the question, how on _earth_ had she managed to get into such a tight spot that only the FBI could cut her loose? (And another, which he'd have to ask her personally, was she referring to any contact in specific by her reference to Dorian Gray? Just curious.)

_Here it takes all the running…_The Red Queen. "Red Queen" had been their code phrase, in Copenhagen, all those years ago. It meant, "Meet back at base, ASAP." Did she give him a location?

Oh, yes, there it was. Matthew 3:6. "_And confessing their sins, they were baptized by him in the Jordan River."_ Only, in this case, she meant the Sacramento River. A Catholic church on the riverfront; easy enough.

_Haven't been to the doctor…they left a message. _He loved her humor. The "doctors" she was avoiding were law enforcement—and wasn't that their official business? To clean up society's issues and keep it safe and healthy? But she knew the CBI were on her tail; she didn't feel it was safe to be seen yet.

_Glad to be in touch, will remain so. _She'd leave any more correspondence in the same place—the yellow tulips in the park.

_Catherine Linton._ She was using an assumed name; she didn't want him throwing around the name 'Alex.' (Cathy was never really a Linton; he and Alex had always agreed on this, though more often than not they had wildly different opinions of great protagonists. She was always an Earnshaw at heart.)

So. Neal leaned back, and refolded the note, tossing it absently onto the desk, and considered. The earliest he could possibly get away without being noticed was tomorrow evening. After dinner would be the best time; Peter would be on the phone with Elizabeth, and all their responsibilities with the CBI should be concluded—or, at least, postponed—by that time.

He could only hope Alex managed to stay under the radar for another twenty-four hours.

* * *

"Jeff, are you sure about this?"

The small, fair haired man glanced up. "About what, Jonah?"

His companion shrugged, and shifted uneasily. "We killed those two guards. Was that really necessary?"

"They saw us," Jeff pointed out, "That sealed their fate, and you know it. Stop worrying about the past, and focus on how we're going to move this painting."

Together, they turned to look at the plain wooden box.

"I can't believe that guy wants to pay fifty mil for this thing," Jonah said. "It's not even a clear picture."

"Well, duh," Jeff said, rolling his eyes, "That's why they call it _abstract art_."

"Will you two shut up?" The Boss said, standing. Jeff and Jonah shut their mouths and looked up at her warily. She pushed a lock of long brown hair away from her eyes and continued, "The customer's motives aren't your concern—I hired you two for muscle, not to think. Luckily for you."

Jeff and Jonah were still too nervous to be insulted. The Boss sighed and turned sharply. "Grab the painting, and lets move. We've been here too long already. The cops are starting to get suspicious."

"But," Jonah said, brow wrinkling in confusion, "didn't you say they pinned the theft on Alex Hunter already?"

The Boss turned, and snapped, "No, I said she was their main _suspect_, and I'd like to keep it that way. Which means we need to go. Now."

She turned again, and Jeff elbowed Jonah viciously in the side. "Don't. Fucking. _Talk_."

Jonah rubbed his side with a wounded expression, then picked up his end of the crate and followed his brother out of the warehouse. Outside, the air was still and cold. He could see their reflections, slightly distorted, on the surface of the river, as they walked quickly to the new location.

What he didn't see was the pair of binoculars trained on their movement, nor the slender woman dressed all in black who was looking through them from the rooftops.

* * *

A/N: Yes, we'll see some more of Alex in the next chapter. And some more Neal/Jane interaction.


End file.
